First dates seem to come in a couple of varieties at my age: psychoanalysis session and job interview. Last week I had both. And the return of the Merchant Marine (thank God). Unfortunately, I don't have time to delve into the whole sordid tale here and now. But all will be revealed in time.

Sunday I had a psychoanalysis session with a nervous little Italian who had been living in Boston just over a year and apparently needed to vent. Hey, I understand. But that's what blogs are for. I mean, not two seconds into introductions he'd already launched into a critique of American manners and mores.

Don't get me wrong, there was a time when I would've been right there with him. I had culture shock something awful when I came back to the States in '03. I had that Madonna accent I'd picked up over there. That didn't help matters any. But even without the Madonna accent, coming home to Boston when you've been away awhile is like a belch in the face.

But lately, I'm impatient with this line. Yes, Americans are rude, ill-informed, self-centered, and incapable of real intimacy. So you wanna have sex or what? Effin douchebag.

But Luigi just couldn't let it go. And as sorta cute as he was (and he was definitely in the sorta category) the intensity of his desire for an instant and indissoluble bond with a Bostonian was immediately off-putting. I've been full-time in Boston for coming on four years now, and the truth is if someone's not an asshole to me right off the bat I don't know how to proceed.

He was still struggling, though. He had only recently been through what's known as the South End Salute, where the welcome wagon arrives, and some middle aged queen falls off (or was she pushed?), looks up and sees you picking up the pieces of her shattered tiara, and gasps "The One! I've found The One! Look everyone! I’ve found him! The One!"

You're lonely, new in town and a little desperate for a friend, and it goes from there. You share some very special, um, sex. A week later the two of you are trying to decide whether you should go with the Boston Terrier or the teacup Chihuahua, and talking china patterns. You can't believe how easy it was to find your soulmate. Ha ha! All those other losers are still looking! Not you! The One! You found him! WOO-HOO!

And a week after that he's not answering your phone calls. And when you see him at Club Cafe on the arm of another man, he walks right past you, like you don't even exist! Hey, did he actually just sneer and roll his eyes at you? Did he just whisper something into The New One's ear? Did they just look back at you and laugh?

Welcome to Boston!!! Enjoy your stay!!!

I tried to explain to him that it's a sort of tourist's rite of passage. Like getting pick-pocketed in Rome. But the truth is, as we discussed his man troubles over an espresso at L'Aroma on Newbury Street, I was thinking, well, there goes my game plan. This was not going to be a hook-up. This was not going to be a fun, raunchy, NSA romp. This was going to be "but I thought you were different."

So somehow it didn't surprise me when he seized my hands over the table and told me he loved them. Transference. He had been staring at them hungrily for several minutes.  I was like, well, they're mine. You can't have them.  I need them for things.  Please give them back. 

But what did surprise me was that it only took half an hour for our first big breakthrough. If I dump him now, I thought, he'll be a wreck. I have a responsibility to him to at least walk him to the T, make sure he catches his train, and then change my cell phone number. Once you stop having to change your cell phone number every six weeks or so you know your sex life is over.

I mean, nice guy, but yikes. When we were about to part ways after a short walk through the public garden he invited me to invite him back to my place.

I was like, "um, my place is a mess. I just painted. It smells of paint fumes. All the furniture's piled up in the middle of the room. It's really just... impossible for you to come back to my place. Ever. I mean, it's not you. It's me. It's totally me. It looks like it's gonna need another, I dunno, could be three or four... hundred coats in there. The walls are so porous. And then it also probably has to do with the paint. Y'know, I got the cheap kind. I get that from my dad. But you know, I'm committed to it now. I really like it. And I can't get Aztec Sacrifice in any other brand but that stuff I ordered from Mexico. I mean, I could get something close, but I really wanted that intensity. And Ralph Lauren Barn Red ain't cuttin' it."

He gave me a longing look.

"What about tomorrow night?" he asked.

"Oh. Did...did I mention my brain tumor? And I'm going on a trip. It's with the Make-A-Wish Foundation. It's a trip to um... Iceland. I'm leaving — Oh my Gosh! In, like, ten minutes! I really gotta go! Bjork is doing a benefit concert for me! Friðrik Þór Friðriksson is filming the whole thing!"

And I dashed off.

He has called and messaged me every day, at least twice a day, since.